Among Mad People
by museme87
Summary: For the entirety of her life, Walburga Black was considered to be a mad woman by those who knew her best and those who knew her not at all. The problem is that they failed to understand that no one is born mad.
1. Will You Mourn Her?

**Pairings:** Walburga/Orion, Orion/OFC, Cygnus/Druella, Remus/Sirius (eventually)  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Ever since I finished writing A Noble and Most Ancient House, I've been enthralled with the character of Walburga. This is my attempt to create a sympathetic (though still stark raving mad) portrait of a much unloved woman through a series of glimpses into her life.

**Chapter:** [ 0 ] Will You Mourn Her?  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 594  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> slander, suggested incest  
><strong>Summary:<strong> They wake up to find the daughter of the greatest wizarding dynasty dead.

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><p><strong>Daughter of the House of Black Dead at 60<strong>

News came this morning of the loss of one our world's most enthusiastic advocates of pure-blood supremacy. Walburga Black, woman of a dwindling breed, was found dead in her long time residence at Grimmauld Place at the age of sixty.

Readers will no doubt be familiar with the tragedy that wrought this mad woman's life in the past decade. Her husband's death in 1979 is said to have had ill effect on both her mental faculties and the future of this wizarding dynasty. Two years later would see her eldest son—shining star of the House of Black, Sirius—in Azkaban for the murder of least a dozen Muggles and one time friend, Peter Pettigrew. Youngest son Regulus remains, to this day, missing.

Born in 1925 to Pollux and Irma (Crabbe) Black, the first eleven years of her life would be lived in relative privacy. Mrs. Black would then go on to make a name for herself at Hogwarts, becoming the crown jewel of Slytherin House from 1936-1943 and making Head Girl under Headmaster Armando Dippet. Fellow students would later note that this time period in Mrs. Black's life marked the beginnings of her infamously volatile temper and mad ravings.

An arranged marriage to second-cousin Orion Black would come some years after graduation. Described often as a cold and loveless union, time would see the husband and wife quarrel from things as trivial as the family silver to focal points of tension concerning Mr. Black's unabashed infidelity. During these years, Mrs. Black would become known for throwing lavish dinner parties, becoming single-handedly responsible for determining who was worth knowing and who wasn't, and establishing the Pure-blood High Society Ladies' Club.

The birth of her sons would coincide with Mrs. Black slipping ever quicker into insanity. However, the turning point, her brother Cygnus explained via Owl, was in the summer of 1966 when Mrs. Black is reported to have burned down the family holiday home.

"My dear sister was always ill in the mind, I'm afraid. Naturally, we did all we could for her, but after that summer, Walburga would never recover. She became exceedingly paranoid and showed more enthusiasm towards He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's cause than propriety deemed acceptable. Of course, we tried to reason with her, but she was beyond reason at this point."

It is no secret that the Black family had intimate connections with You-Know-Who's reign of terror. Elder son, Sirius, was reported to have been one of You-Know-Who's most trusted followers, and his uncle Cygnus and aunt Druella believe that it was Sirius who led their daughter, Bellatrix, down the path to destruction.

"That scoundrel was a notorious mischief maker," says Mrs. Black's sister-in-law, Druella, of Sirius Black. "If I could have seen how far he would fall, I would have advised Bellatrix away from him. Walburga wouldn't have had that, though. She had plans for Sirius and my Bella for some time. However, her complicity upon hearing of Bellatrix's marriage to the elder Lestrange can only be attributed to her sudden, unhealthy obsession with Sirius. If you ask me, there was something more going on there than anyone ever knew, and _that_is the reason for her son's departure."

Whether there is any truth behind Druella Black's words cannot be said. However, no one can argue that something was happening behind closed doors and beyond those forced smiles that graced the _Prophet's_ society page for years on end. What, exactly, those going-ons happen to be will go with Walburga Black to her grave.


	2. The Girl at the Beginning

**Pairing:**Walburga/Orion, Orion/OFC, Cygnus/Druella, Remus/Sirius (eventually)

**Chapter:** [ I ] The Girl at the Beginning  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> 719  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> none  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Walburga comes face to face with her destiny.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong>The more I write Walburga, the more I see where Sirius gets it.

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><p>.<p>

**I. The Girl at the Beginning **

She is all of eight, dressed in her pure-blood fineries, when she first sets eyes on the tapestry.

It is her grandparents' anniversary, and their family celebrates by holding a ball in the grand reception room of Grimmauld Place. When her mother and father are too busy mingling with their guests to mind her, she slips away, eager to get lost in such an expansive house.

Walburga is a child inclined towards adventure.

The sight of the family heirlooms dazzles her—metals and emeralds and aged parchment that holds unspeakable magic. Walburga dare not touch them; her nurse has warned her against it, and time has taught her well, besides. So, she gazes—hungry eyes devouring the trinkets—and wonders what it would take to possess them all, to be queen of this castle. And the moment she considers the cost, she dismisses the thought entirely.

No cost is too great for glory.

Starved for attention, she desires that, one day, all eyes be fixed on her. Friendless, she hopes that, if nothing else, money will buy her companionship. Even at the tender age of eight, she is quick enough to understand that this is the fate dealt to a daughter, especially one in the line of secondary inheritance.

She wanders through the confusing halls of this house, ceilings impossibly tall and lights struggling to illuminate the corridors. A half-opened door calls her attention, and Walburga wonders if she has ever been inside this room before. Upon entering, she decidedly has not.

In the absence of candlelight, the walls begin to glow as she steps over the threshold. The bright lines twist and turn, race across the wall to draw intricate patterns upon them. Briefly, Walburga is unsure of what these lines signify.

As she stops in the room's center, it occurs to her—a tree, shining pure white and vast. From the branches, faces appear and beneath them names that are difficult to pronounce at her young age. Slowly, Walburga paces around the room, her path lit by this tree's ethereal glow.

She pauses in her walk before the tree's trunk and inscribed there are the words _Toujours Pur_. With a self-possessed smile, Walburga recites the words, perfect French lilt to her small voice. She understands, then, what this tree signifies—her family, her destiny. Noble and Most Ancient Blood—the blood that winds through her veins. _Pure_blood.

For as long as she can remember, Walburga has heard tale of her greatness, of the power of her forefathers, of the mountains of gold in their vaults. She has been expected to learn their names, their achievements, their stars. And like a dutiful daughter, she has.

Never before has she seen her noble blood laid out before her like this, though. Surely, it is great. If she can trace her family to such lengths, surely, they are important. _She_is important. Daughter of the House of Black. Forever pure.

When her tiny fingers brush the thick fabric, a branch of the tapestry glows bright green. She traces a path down to the light, examining the letters that are illuminated in silver.

Walburga Black.

_Her_.

She has earned a place on this great tree. It responds to her magic, acknowledges the quality of her blood and marks it for the world to see.

Walburga Black.

_Toujours Pur_.

Compelled forward, she kisses the fabric where her name rests, as if paying tribute to the greatness of those who came before her. Suddenly, the grand chandelier on the ceiling births silver balls of light in bursts. The light hovers around the room like tiny, glowing bugs, illuminating everything like a white fire.

Walburga is uncommonly pleased with this bit of magic and begins to giggle an impressed little laugh. She holds her arms out as if she were going to dance in the family ballroom, curtseys, and begins to spin around the room with glee.

She grows dizzy, and dizzier still, balls of light now streaks against the dark. When she stops, the world continues to spin around her. So unbalanced, she falls to the floor, first on her bottom and then on her back until she lies in the center of the room, above the chandelier.

Smiling, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she sees the universe.


	3. Inheritance

****Chapter:** **[ II ] Inheritance **  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> **886**  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> **mention of infidelity, talk of female oppression**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **After Walburga confronts her mother about her father's infidelity, her mother teaches her about her inescapable destiny. **  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> **This has been my favorite chapter to write so far simply because of the parallels with Sirius' family situation in canon.

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><p>.<p>

**II. Inheritance**

Slowly, she closes the small book in her hands and sets it delicately upon her lap. The sound of the grandfather clock's hands—_tick, tick, tick_—deafen her to the point where she can no longer bear it. Walburga looks up, cool, grey eyes seeking out her mother's aging face.

"How can you tolerate it?" she asks, voice frayed and brittle.

Her mother puts down her sewing, scrutinizing her with great care. "To what are you referring?"

She struggles with the idea of how easily her mother pretends nothing is going on. Had she been unaware of her husband's after-dinner announcement? Had she no clue what he meant by stepping out of the house for the evening? Walburga knew—_had_known for a year now. She hadn't quite the courage to speak up about it before, but now, ever more aware of the relations between men and women now that her body has recently changed, she can no longer keep it bottled up inside.

"His affair. He's made a cuckhold of you."

"Don't be stupid, girl," her mother scolds, bitterly. "A woman can't be a cuckhold."

"Fine, a mockery, then. My father is making a mockery of both you and your marriage. And night after night, you sit by and tolerate it," she explains, testily. "Have you no self-respect?"

"What would _you_have me do?"

"I would have you ask him to call this tryst off immediately. I should think you would want the same."

The saccharine smile—sickening sweet—that alights on her mother's lips has Walburga in a fury. All she does is smile and nod and play the dutiful wife—always waiting, never questioning. Her mother has bore her father's children—a pair of sons, no less—and Walburga thinks that ought to mean something to the both of them, if nothing else does. Respect, perhaps, if not affection. Why, then, her mother would let her father make an idiot out of her after she has fulfilled all her wifely duties is beyond Walburga.

"You will learn, daughter, that it is a woman's role to be made a fool of and not to question it. I tolerate my husband's infidelity like my mother before me and her mother before her. Someday, it will be your burden to bear—your sole inheritance where your brothers will receive gold and power."

Walburga looks her, bewildered. "I am a Black! No man would dare make a mockery of me like this."

"Ah, but first you are a woman. Therein lies the rub."

"I will marry a man who respects my name."

"That is enough, girl," her mother warns. "You will marry whomever your father chooses."

Since childhood, Walburga has possessed a strong will, has been defiant by her very nature. Her nurses insisted that she would grow out of her stubborn streak, yet she clings to her wild beliefs—whims and dark desires—to this day.

Her father calls her too proud; she thinks he is not proud enough. Her father believes she is too willful and outspoken for a daughter; Walburga thinks that she has the mind and heart of a son. Her mother will rage at her for ideas that are too progressive for such a conservative society; she thinks that she should be unashamed for wanting a husband that treats her with the honor her name has entitled her.

Yet time and time again, she is snuffed under the heels of her parents. Her list of may-dos grows steadily shorter as her list of may-not-dos grows ever longer. Walburga tires of it, tires of being commanded and demanded because she is of inferior sex.

She struggles with an insult to throw at her mother, her tongue forming around one set of words and then another. Each time, the words die before she can voice them. Her disappointment and her disgust, her rage and her bitterness—it is not possible to fully express her problem with her family, with society.

And so, Walburga storms out.

In haste, she makes for the foyer, black skirts catching under her feet. Walburga swings the great door open, her cloak but a memory stowed away in another room. Her legs carry her down snow covered steps, the white powder ankle deep.

She takes several strides in one direction in the dim lamp light before turning and rushing in the other. Walburga pauses there, too, before her legs give out on her and she falls to her knees in the snow.

Having spent most of her life locked away in this house, she knows so very little of the outside world. Having been so proud, she has no friends to turn to in this moment of reckless abandonment. Having been born a female, she has no money to her name.

For all that she may want to escape her destiny of silence and false smiles, she knows it is impossible now. While possessing the will, she lacks all resource and opportunity. And this, Walburga thinks spitefully, is how they do it—men like her father, men like her future husband, no doubt. This is how they break women, generation after generation. Strip them of their chance, rob them of the will to object, and behold the perfect wife.

A doll on a shelf—pretty, yet so very empty inside.


	4. Refuse Thy Name

****Chapter:** **[ III ] Refuse Thy Name**  
><strong>Wordcount:<strong> **1,441**  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> **none**  
><strong>Summary:<strong> **For all that she tries to fight it, her name means more to her than true love itself.**  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> **Sorry for the delay! I've been finishing up fests and been bombarded with school work. However, I hope this chapter was worth the wait. I sort of love it.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**III. Refuse Thy Name**

"Why is it that you're hiding in the dark corners of the library, may I ask?"

Her eyes stumble over the line of her notes, her senses becoming ever aware of the presence looming over her shoulder. The voice is not an unfamiliar one, though the feelings that bloom in her breast make her almost dread hearing it.

Sebastian Yaxley.

She shifts in her seat just slightly in order to face him better and is greeted by a wide, toothy smile that makes her squirm. For all that she should be unimpressed by her fellow house mate, her wits falter at the sight of him. Walburga hates herself for it.

By pure-blood standards, he is perfectly unhandsome, for her kind value dark features, reserved behavior, and quiet ruthlessness. Sebastian is none of these things and so much more—fair and lithe, boisterous and outgoing. His desire for glory would do him much favor if it weren't for the fact that his blood is tainted to baseness.

"Where would you have me be?" she asks, indifferently.

"Tonight, perhaps, celebrating our Quidditch victory in the common room. Tomorrow, perhaps, on my arm attending Professor Slughorn's dinner."

Her brow raises. "You jest."

"Do I?"

The glint in his eyes shines mischievousness, and she understands that he is well aware of the social line he has just crossed. Briefly, she panics at the thought of his discovering her damnable desire for him. Has she been in any way obvious about her interest? Oh, it is not an interest she would ever dare act on—not if she has any intention of finding a suitable marriage—but for all that she has tried to quash these emotions, they linger.

"You cannot possibly be suggesting what I believe you are suggesting."

Sebastian slips quickly and easily into the chair next to her, one arm on the table and the other reaching across the back of her chair. She thinks to end this madness immediately—end it before they are seen by someone—but his close proximity leaves her unwillingly breathless.

"Why not, Walburga?"

Her name slipping so tenderly from his lips, the softness of his voice and needy tone, muddles her sensibilities; she has never heard her name said in such a way before. Heat rises to her cheeks, and Walburga thinks how unseemly it is for a girl of her stature to be blushing because of a boy like him. She is a _Black_, and he is a nobody. Yet, her body betrays her.

"Because of your blood," she states simply, struggling to sound firm in her resolve.

"It's pure."

"I am well aware, of course, but you are base-born all the same."

"What does that matter?" And he dares rest his hand on her knee. "You fancy me."

She could slap him for that, for throwing her misguided affection in her face. While it may be truth, it is disgusting to her all the same. Not because of who he is, but because of who she is. She, daughter of the House of Black, lowering herself to such lengths. If her father knew how her heart betrays her, he would see that she had some sense knocked into her.

"I most certainly do not," she lies, and it is harder to do so than she once imagined it might be.

"Why is it, then, that you let me borrow your Transfiguration notes without word?"

She pales. "That hardly constitutes interest."

"To most people, certainly. However, you take your notes in French. If you think me as lowly as you claim, you would remark of my inability to understand them and quickly shoo me away. But by giving them to me gladly, as you do, you obviously hold me in some esteem."

For perhaps the first time in her life, Walburga feels so utterly helpless. He has her—knife pressed to her throat—and her wits cannot save her now. Oh, it's all very true—these accusations. She does think him sharp minded. Though he may be base-born and without desirable prospects, she cannot help but see how rich he is in cleverness. And while it is so very wrong of her to think it—how her forefathers would shun her for holding this thought!—she has believed for some time that he is her equal in all matters save for blood.

"Say it is true, then," she begins slowly, eyes dropping to the fullness of his lips, "Let us say that I feel affection for you. Nothing can come of it."

"Why?" And it is a question filled with the wonder of absurdity.

"Because I am a Black," Walburga answers, uncertain.

His hand—once on her knee—shifts, twisting the fabric on her skirt along with it. She feels his fingers on the underside of her thigh, his thumb on top—digits separated from her flesh only by material. The subtle pressure he applies makes her breath hitch, and Walburga finds her legs spreading slightly for him, as if she is nothing more than a common, Knockturn Alley harlot.

"I will not ruin myself for you, Sebastian," she explains through shuddered breaths.

"Don't call it 'ruin'."

"But that is what it is. You would not make a suitable husband, and I cannot give myself to anyone but him."

"Rubbish, have you looked at the witches around you? All pure-bloods and hardly any of them virgins." He sighs, eyes gazing pleadingly. "I could give you love, Walburga."

"But not gold or prestige befitting my station. And what is love compared to that?" she asks, a touch uncertainly.

In honesty, she has never once considered marriage to someone she loves. Since she could scarcely form sentences, Walburga has known what becomes of those who give way to desire, who risk their name for something as foolish as affection. She once vowed never to let herself be caught in such a web.

But now, sitting so close to the only young man she has ever felt a connection to, she sees so easily how fools are mislead by emotion. For ages, she has admired him from afar—from handsome looks to unabashed pride. Since before OWLs, he has asked her for her notes.

For nigh on two years she has been able to keep herself in check, to maintain a level of frigidity that keeps both him and her wants at bay. Then, it amazes her how, with one touch of his large, strong hand, he has her wanting to throw everything away.

What would it be like to be unhindered by familial obligation? What would it mean for her if she had the license to be as free as some of her female housemates? Oh, if she hadn't been trained to think so highly of status! If her pride hadn't meant more to her than happiness itself. Maybe then she might wear a locket around her neck with his picture. Maybe then she might spread her legs longingly for him, ask him to make her mother to fine sons.

But she is a Black, and that comes before all else.

Knowing now what she knows, Walburga cannot bear to look him in the eye. She feels her own growing moist with emotion. His comfortable grip on her leg loosens and with it comes a finality. Of what, she cannot be certain. Misery, perhaps, or something equally as difficult to suffer. Her only consolation is the feel of his other hand brushing back her thick, black tresses, of it resting against her smooth cheek.

Her eyes flutter shut, pained. Unable to see it coming, she is startled by the brush of his lips against hers. Hesitant at first, they grow in confidence as she presses, hesitantly, back. Her first kiss at eighteen, and oh what an idiot she has been for waiting so long.

In her weakness, she whimpers as their lips meet time after time. Always gentle. Never quite communicating the depths of their yearning. And Walburga, not knowing how to properly kiss but letting her body guide her, begins to open her mouth for him eagerly. Only, Sebastian is already pulling away before she manages.

He appears so unhappy when she can bring herself to set sight on him, and it causes the wetness in her eyes to trickle down her cheeks. While cold, she is not incapable of feelings—a thought which catches even her off guard. And never before had she realized how closely another person's misery could bring about her own.

"I am so very, very sorry," she says softly, wiping back her tears.

And before leaving, he replies with, "So am I."


End file.
